


Starless

by Fen_Assan



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Dark, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Romance, Temporary Amnesia, What Happened to Yen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2016-12-06
Packaged: 2018-09-02 10:07:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8663404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fen_Assan/pseuds/Fen_Assan
Summary: Yennefer finds herself in the company of Witchers who claim they saved her from the Wild Hunt and promised Geralt to take care of her. Except to her it means absolutely nothing. 
This fic is meant to fill in the gap between the books and the games, starting from the moment Geralt leaves with the Wild Hunt, having traded his soul for Yennefer’s, and spanning the period until some time in the first Witcher game, at which point it will depart from canon. This is Yennefer's story.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I always felt we were not told enough about what happened to Yennefer between the time Geralt saved her from the Wild Hunt and her appearance in the third game. This is my attempt at telling her story. The plot is largely based on what we find out from Geralt's flashbacks and conversations with Letho in Witcher 2, as well as different dialogue in the Wild Hunt, but as it is not that much, a lot is going to be just my invention. 
> 
> This won't be full of sunshine and roses, but I do plan a happy ending, of a kind at least. I hope you enjoy reading. :)

_Blood. Blood on her chin, dripping from her mouth. The same blood on the hard, spiked metal of a gauntlet as he flicks his wrist to let the drops fly, and she follows the red spheres with her eyes until they splash against the dirt. He holds her with crushing strength, and she wants to scream from the pain in her ribs, but she is silent. She teeters in his saddle, pressed to the punishing carcass of his armour. Blackness._

_An orchard in bloom: the sounds of birdsong, and of muffled laughter as he nuzzles at her neck, and then - the sunlight and scents and stalks are all crushed under the armoured boots, red armoured boots. Why are they red? Is it rust? Or blood? It turns dark._

_She is on the ground, by a huge tree. Tree full of dead people. It is night, but lights are flickering everywhere. Lights, screams, and sounds of battle - metallic clashes and crashed bones. A white-haired man lunging at a creature in red armour, one sword in his hand, another behind his back. Two swords…_

_Death. The taste of it in her mouth, the salt of tears and tang of blood. It hurts. It is not her who has died, not yet, so why does it hurt so much?_

She wakes up with a scream - a wail that scratches at her throat. Not knowing why she is crying - when she has no strength to. Heavy hands land on her frail shoulders, shaking. They could shake the life itself out of her. 

“Yennefer!” a grating voice booms in her ear, and she winces. 

“Shut her up, or I will. She’ll wake the whole damned village. Not that we’re very welcome here,” another man’s voice nearby. 

“Save your breath, Serrit. If you’re pissing your pants in fear of a few hapless villagers, you’re welcome to get the fuck out now. You owe Geralt nothing anyway. He didn’t save _your_ life.” She only hears grumbled curses from the other man, tries to open her eyes to look at - who? Her captors? 

The man holding her is huge, two lines stretch from the top of his bald head to meet at a crease above his eyebrows, forming a nearly perfect triangle. She is too weak, even to think, but she sees someone has cut this man’s scalp open, and yet he is alive. All her barely animate instincts scream he is dangerous. He should be avoided, but she cannot move. She closes her eyes, taking laboured breaths, searching for something inside her: there is something she knows, something she can use to protect herself, to defeat men like him. She is certain there is something, but it eludes her, even the very meaning of what it is is beyond her reach. She feels a single strong arm wrap under her arms to lift her up on the bed, while the other stuffs some pillows behind her back to support her. Her head tilts to the side, but she just about half-sits. 

“Drink,” the order comes with a nudge on her chin, and she opens her mouth, even if involuntarily. She cannot trust him, she cannot trust anyone. But she is parched. She takes a few sips, and as the liquid soothes her pained throat, she gulps, and splutters, and nearly chokes. The hands straighten her up and dab a rough cloth at her wet face. She opens her eyes, coughing.

Another man - of a much slighter build, with a scar across his nose and a twisted band holding his dirty dark hair, stares at her. When he speaks, she knows he is the one who was so keen on silencing her earlier. 

“Not sure’s worth it, Letho. Look at her. She’ll die any time soon,” he shakes his head, but she does not sense as much malice in his tone this time.

“Then I’ll take care of her until she dies,” the bulky one - Letho - insists with a derisive squint at his accomplice. Although she is even less certain of who they are now, and what she is doing in their company. She does feel like she might die, or rather that her current state makes such an assumption quite probable. But the flickering remnants of her spirit say that she is not giving up and dying. She...she thinks it is in her nature not to give up. But everything is too hazy to know for certain. 

She turns her head to take in the surroundings: they are in a house which appears to be large - there are stairs leading up and doors to other rooms - but rundown. Layers of dust and grime cover most surfaces, and it makes it easy to see which ones the current inhabitants actually use. There is a window, but the shutters are closed. She is unable to guess if it is day or night, only untidy clusters of candles give off some light. Then she remembers one of the men’s concerns about her waking people up. Must be night then. Her gaze moves to herself half-lying on a bed whose cleanliness is not questionable - it is undoubtedly filthy. That is how she feels herself to be as well. Curiously, or might be quite logically, she seems beyond caring. She is in too much pain: her whole body aches and feels as if it is shattered, her mind is blurred, and there is a nagging suspicion somewhere inside her that something is very wrong. Not only with the state she sees and feels herself in, there is something greater behind that predicament. She is not… complete. 

“Drink some more,” Letho offers, his voice still unpleasant, despite his apparently friendly intent. “But slowly this time.” She complies, even feeling that it is strange to do as she is told. It takes her a while to empty the earthenware mug, patiently held by Letho at her lips. Finally, she tries to speak. 

“Where am I?” she manages, but her voice sounds false somehow, alien, not her own.

“Dudno, a village in Maecht, if you must know,” Letho answers as the other man - Serrit, it occurs to her - sits on a rickety chair nearby. She does not like him being there. She does not like being there herself. 

She opens her mouth to speak, but only a cough comes out, and she lifts a thin, pale thing of her arm to her lips - cracked and bleeding. She stares at the bright red spots on her fingers, and wipes them unintentionally as she clutches at the rags she is covered with. She wants to ask so much more, but her capabilities are too limited. 

“Why?” she swallows. Letho sits more comfortably, resting his elbows on his knees, and sighs loudly. Even hunched like this, he is a mountain of a man. 

“Because we saved you from the Wild Hunt. Serrit, his brother Auckes, myself,” he pauses, his amber eyes - catlike eyes, she realises - boring into hers, “and Geralt. He sacrificed himself for you, and had to leave with the Wild Hunt. I promised him I’ll take care of you till you get better.” She looks at Letho, then at Serrit, who is watching her intently, nearly on the edge of his seat, as if expecting a particular reaction from her. She repeats Letho’s words in her head, searching her mind for familiar meanings. She only finds the dull pounding of a headache. She swallows hard, her nostrils flare as she takes her next breath. 

“Who is Geralt?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the lovely reception of the first chapter and your support! I hope you will enjoy the story as it unfolds, and I'm always happy and grateful for your comments and thoughts. <3

It may have started as pretence, but it is no longer so. Too frail to experience proper shock, she is shaken by the discovery nonetheless. The “discovery” which is but a cruel joke, for all she learns is that she does not remember. 

The men - the Witchers - try to tell her, to explain, understanding, at first, of her state "after everything she has been through". And then their faces become drawn as they realise she has forgotten much more than the recent events. Not only months or even years of her life, but near all of it. She does not tell them that of course. But they guess it from her poorly formed questions and hardly concealed reactions. 

She cannot stand this, and she closes her eyes. “Sleep,” the only thing she tells them. She wants to be left alone, her mind, her memory not to be probed any further, spared the misery of the emptiness exposed. She refuses to eat, she feels to weak. And not alone enough. So she keeps her eyes closed and lies still, quiet. They do leave her alone after a while. 

This is not pretence. She truly cannot remain present. There does not seem to be much to be present for anyway. So she lets go. Drifts from the darkness of the ramshackle house to the darkness behind her eyelids, but this one will not stay still. It moves and shifts into flashes of blinding light, into deafening sounds of magic crackling and swords striking sparks, into a face right above her head. Sometimes it is a tough, scarred, even cruel face of the bald Witcher, at other times it is a helm - a mask, a skeletal, metal thing which grows spikes on top - like hair standing on end on the head of a madman, or a crown of an insane king, thirsty for blood. The mask traps the voice which says something - at her, but not too her - she can almost hear the words, almost, but she fails. When she tries to open her eyes, her eyelids feel heavy and stuck together, and when the reward for succeeding is just the triangle scar on a stern face, she gives up. She sinks back into sleep, summoning true darkness, hoping for it against all hope, even if its emptiness does not come with the absence of pain. 

She knows she has been sleeping after all, for the waking greets her with more intense pain. The aching seems to be spread evenly throughout her body, except for the pulsing beacons that are her temples, her neck, her stomach, and her left ankle. She risks a peek before letting a moan slip from her lips. The room looks the same but for the fire burning bright in the hearth. She feels no warmer than before, although as she tries to drag her arm from below the covers she realises there is a mountain of blankets and rags lying over her which she does not remember from earlier. When she manages to free her hand, it goes for her chin, to scratch at something there, something that itches annoyingly, likely a scab. She finds there are scabs, but also trails of some dried up liquid all over her chin. She does not really wish to know what it is, but she scratches at the spot and inspects her fingers nonetheless. No red. 

The footsteps are light, incredibly so, once she becomes aware there are two people walking - one must be in an adjacent room, and the other just about to enter the bleak and smelly abode where she dwells. The smell might as well just be herself though. She fights back the scattering thoughts, and some - possibly misguided - sense of self-preservation orders her to let her hand fall limply and be still, eyes closed. It might be smarter, more efficient to run, or even better - to fight, but she can do none of that right now. So she pretends to be sleeping again. 

Eventually, two sets of smooth footfalls break the silence in the room. She feels she would never hear them approach if not for the old wooden planks covering the floor which creak with every other step. The heavier - although still light - steps approach her bed, while the others move away. She can hear that person tend to the fire, while the one standing right next to her is eerily and unnervingly unmoving and silent.

“Any changes?” the one by the hearth asks, his voice new to her. 

“Maybe,” Letho’s response grates against her nerves. “She’s moved.” His hand grabs at hers - listless on top of the blankets - feels her pulse, and then tucks it back under the covers. It is fortunate she is so weak - she does not jerk her hand away. 

“Might’ve been thrashing in her sleep again,” the other man’s voice is suddenly right next to her bed as well. Letho grumbles as the back of his fingers touch her forehead. She does not even wince. 

“Not sure. Her heartbeat is still erratic at best, but the fever seems to have lifted.”

“Are you saying she’s better?” the man sounds genuinely surprised, but not unpleasantly. 

“Mmh,” is the only answer he gets. She does not know how to interpret that. If how she feels now is better than before it is a meagre solace indeed. 

“We should let some fresh air in,” the unknown man says, “no sense in trapping the sickness in.”

“The fact her fever just broke doesn’t mean she can handle the cold, Auckes.”

“We’ll cover her head with something too for a bit. Look, this room needs to be aired, and you know it.” At the idea of being covered completely, an image of suffocating jolts to her exhausted mind, and she feels panic and weakness start a battle inside of her. She appreciates the irony when the weakness - the stronger of the two - wins, leaving her still, only her breaths more laboured, as the man named Auckes stacks a few bundles around her head. She is nearly amazed he makes sure to leave some space in front of her nose and mouth. She is grateful when she finally senses a breath of crisp night air through the opening. She breathes in and out deeply, slowly.

“Hm,” Auckes chuckles, “looks like she might survive after all. Wouldn’t believe it. What shall we do?”

“Even if she is better, she’s in no state to be moved, so we’re staying here for a while,” Letho answers just as she hears another person come in. 

“Don’t tell me. You two are still sitting here like chickens roosting over their precious egg,” the third voice joins in derisively. She recognises him. 

“Shut up, Serrit,” Auckes says with practiced ease. Brothers, she remembers. 

“It’s dangerous to stay in one place for too long,” Serrit offers, unyielding, sounding somewhat drunk. Next thing she hears is two creaks of the floorboards, and then a thud against a wall.

“Don’t teach _me_ about dangerous,” Letho warns in a voice which is even more raw and rusty than usual, oozing threat.

“Fine,” a spit. “Cluck on. I’m off to sleep.”

“The first smart thing you said all day,” Letho utters to Serrit’s receding footsteps. 

“We should try to find some Witcher work if we’re staying. I’ll ask about in the village,” his brother suggests without any comment on what has just transpired.

“ _I_ can do that,” Letho contradicts. 

“Sure, if you can remind me of the last villager who doesn’t shit bricks every time they see you.” Silence in response. “I have better chances of getting work. Even if you have better chances of getting it done.”

“Oh, is that recognition?” Letho pours a generous helping of sarcasm over his words, ”you must have caught some fucking disease from the sorceress.” 

“Do you think we should give her some Swallow? Just a bit?” the man asks after a spell of silence.

“We’ve been there, Auckes. You know Witcher potions just kill common folk.”

“Well, she doesn’t exactly seem very common.” When Letho says nothing to that, Auckes continues. “I planned to go hunting in the morning. You wanna join? Clearing your head wouldn’t be a bad idea.”

“Think it wise leaving her with just your brother here?” Auckes sighs heavily before replying.

“He won’t kill her. You know it.”

“True. But just as likely won’t help her either.”

“You go then. I’ll stay. I left some traps out, you’ll probably find most.” The silence stretches for some time. Then one of them closes the shutters again, and relieves her head of the temporary bastion in which she came to feel nearly comfortable. 

“I’ll go right away,” Letho states, “she’ll need to be force-fed more of the broth. I’ll bring the cauldron here.”

It takes all her patience to breathe normally, and not move until she hears the entrance door finally close after Letho. 

“Have you been awake the whole time or just part of it?” She gasps at Auckes’ question, and opens her eyes. The man standing at the foot of the bed resembles his brother, but despite the scar on his cheek and the too-short hair on his recently shaved head, he looks nowhere near as menacing, or as revolting as his sibling.

“Does it matter?” she manages to ask in a raspy voice, words scratching at her throat. The man smirks.

“Dammit, you _are_ better. We were sure you’d die. Nearly did too.” She looks about, swallowing to sooth her throat, and feeling it somehow unnaturally constricted. She tests her body to see if she can move to sit up. “Wait,” the Witcher says, “I’ll help you.” She has no time to refuse as he swiftly pulls some pillows from under her and stacks them up, and then grabs her under arms - not ungently - and props her against them. When their eyes meet as he lets her go and his face is too close, he says “I’m Auckes. I’ll get you some broth.”

He does not wait for her to reply, instead walking towards the hearth and busying himself with the crockery. 

“How are you feeling?” he asks without looking at her, pouring soup into a bowl. 

“As if dead,” she manages, “but not entirely.”

“No wonder,” he chuckles. “You’ve been out for days. Delirious and feverish. Did not look like you’d make it.”

“Days?” 

“Four in particular.” He drags a low stool nearer the bed and sits, dips the spoon into the soup as if he is about to feed her, but then changes his mind. “Gotta let it cool a bit first.” She feels a wave of repulsion flush over her at the thought of being helpless among strange men for four days. She wants to be sick, but her stomach can offer nothing but a bit of bile, which only leaves a bitter taste in her dry mouth and makes her shudder. 

“Breathe,” Auckes says. “It’s just panic, it’ll be over soon. Breathe slowly.” Uncomprehending, she becomes enraged at him for his kindness. Or she would be if she was strong enough. As it is, she only grits her teeth and breathes. 

When she forces her eyes open, there is a spoon filled with brownish liquid in front of her face, and she turns away, even hearing her stomach grumble. 

“It’s safe, I can have some myself to prove it’s not poisoned.” The thought of him licking the spoon he will then offer to her is much more disgusting than that of being poisoned. She opens her mouth reluctantly and swallows. It is warm, and hearty. And it in fact smells quite nice. She thinks she can feel that small amount of broth slide down her throat and all the way to her stomach, and it cramps. She winces, waits, and opens her mouth again, and the spoon is there, full. It is messy. Some of the soup dribbles on her chin, joining the dried remains from before. At least she knows what it is now. 

When the broth is nearly gone, she inhales at the wrong moment, and all of a sudden it is everywhere, and she has to cough to free her constricted throat, and Auckes holds her straight. Finally, she takes long gasps, and, her belly warmed, her hands seem to find some strength in them and rise to feel at the tightness in her neck. Her fingers touch a rough cloth there - bandages. She lifts wide, questioning eyes at Auckes. 

“Had to do it. You were clasping at the thing all the time in your delirium, clawing yourself bloody on the neck in the process.” 

“Had to do what?” She swallows uncomfortably.

“Take it off of course, to clean and dress the wounds. Don’t worry, Letho has it, and he’ll return it to you as soon as he’s back.”

“Return what?” 

“The pendant. Your star.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> This is a somewhat different kind of story from what I usually write, so I'd be super grateful if you let me know what you think! Any feedback is very welcome.


End file.
